The Rise of the House of Rookwood
by vlad the inhaler
Summary: Augustus Rookwood, unspeakable and Death Eater, discovers the prophecy. How ironic, that Dumbledore and Voldemort should grant him a destiny even greater than their own.
1. Prologue

Augustus Rookwood succeeded in apparating into his private safe house in London before letting out a low groan of pain. Attempting to hold in the agony that wracked his body, his shoulders and back trembled violently – the after effects of the Cruciatus still burning every nerve in his body.

He coughed uncontrollably, grimacing as the taste of blood began to fill his mouth. Spitting onto the floor, pureblood manners be damned, he slowly made his way across the room, throwing himself into a battered chair and groaning out a string of curses at his carelessness.

_'Veelas snare more fools than werewolves,'_ he thought bitterly, reminiscing on the night's "failure". Weeks ago, Severus had overheard part of a prophecy made to the greatest blood traitor of them all, Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort had been eager to find out the final part, and had immediately ordered Rookwood to investigate the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries.

Despite his position as Head of the Unspeakables, current security measures and his own justified paranoia had prevented a speedy recovery of this potential weapon.

Nevertheless, Augustus had followed through on his assignment, locating and confirming the existence of the prophecy and acquiring another piece of this intriguing puzzle: **The Dark Lord and (?) **read the label on the prophecy

'_It didn't make a damn bit of difference,'_ Rookwood thought, glowering to himself. Despite the inherent and unbreakable magic protecting the prophecy, he had "failed" to open it, and was forced to endure a bout of humiliation and agony at the hands of a man who, despite everything, was just a psychotic megalomaniac and even worse, a half-blood bastard.

_'Not that I'd ever let him know I know that,' _he thought with a grim chuckle. No matter, The Dark Lord had decided enough time had been wastedand had apparently discovered where the Potters were hiding. Their child, whose description fit what was known of the prophecy, was the target for the Dark Lord's private revel this evening.

With a groan and a string of curses, Augustus hobbled out of the chair, reaching for one of the more enjoyable pain relievers he kept by his bed side, a large bottle of Vladimir's Mandrake Vodka. Merlin thank whoever had managed to capture the essence of the deadly mandrake, without making the liquor itself poisonous... mostly. _Say what you will about the Russians, bastards make it a damn sight better that we do nowadays. _

Sitting down on the shabby cot he kept in this hideaway, his pain and bitterness gave away to full blown anger. He was a pureblood dammit! Yet here he was, hidden away in a dingy corner not fit for a house elf, nursing a body battered by someone who shouldn't dare look him in the eye, much less curse him.

It seemed a lifetime ago that he had been swayed by the Dark Lord's power and charisma, his own enthusiasm compromising his normally practical mind. With a final chuckle that erupted into another painful coughing fit, Augustus went to bed, his mind wary of the times to come.

Hours later, Augustus woke in a panic, screaming as a sharp pain traveled the length of his arm. Rather stupidly, his memory drifted to the fire curses Dolohov was so fond of, and the recruit whose arm he had slowly boiled just two days before. Now his own arm burned, a searing heat radiating out of his dark mark.

And then, mercifully, it stopped, and as Augustus regained his thoughts, he took a look at the damned tattoo, the habitual reminder of his descent into servitude. It was fading, rapidly sinking into his skin until only a faint trace of the mark could be seen. This had never happened before, and Augustus jumped from the bed, grabbing his wand and prepared to apparate far away from his current sanctuary. After all, what one doesn't know tends to leave one dead.

_Harry Potter – the Boy who Lived!_

_By Anthony Bulstrode_

_In what will surely be remembered as one of the greatest moments in wizarding history, You-Know-Who was finally vanquished a week ago by a most unlikely hero, the year old infant Harry Potter. Details are vague and for the past week were unavailable to the general public, but a source deep within the Ministry has informed us on condition of anonymity that You-Know-Who was found dead at the Potter's residence in Godric's Hollow. Tragically, James Potter, Head of the House of Potter, and his wife were found murdered at the scene, presumably whilst engaged in a heroic final stand against You-Know-Who. Remarkably, the young Harry Potter survived, and again, sources point to the infant hero as the savior of our world in its darkest hour._

_For the full history of the Potter Family, see page 3_

_Speculation on Harry Potter's current where-abouts, see page 4 _

Augustus Rockwood was in a horrid mood. For a week now, he had been on the run, attempting to piece together the current situation without compromising his own safety. Fortunately, his position within the ministry allowed him to be absent for long periods of time without notice, but suspicions were bound to rise if his absence continued. Clearing his head, he threw the paper away and began to formulate a plan.

He simply would not believe that the boy had defeated the Dark Lord. It was inconceivable; that a child who required assistance to wipe its own ass could vanquish the greatest Dark Lord to threaten Britain since before the founding of Hogwarts. Nonetheless, a mystery was here, and Augustus was nothing if not intrigued. Knowledge was power, and for whatever reason, this situation held both in spades.

That however, would have to wait. If the papers were publicly celebrating the Dark Lord's fall, _and they'd have to be, for Bulstrode to be trumpeting about it,_ then it would not be long until the Death Eaters were hunted down and brought to trial. Few of Voldemort's inner circle knew of Rookwood's role – the sensitive nature of his position demanding secrecy even from the most passionate of the Dark Lord's supporters.

The one glaring contrast unfortunately, was Igor Karkaroff. Years ago, at the ascension of the Dark Lord, he and Igor had worked to bring about a coup in Austria. Torn apart by both the muggle wars as well as Grindelwald, the once powerful magical empire had hung precariously in the balance, and the resulting overthrow of the Pro-Muggle Minister had done wonders for the Dark Lord's recruiting network. Unfortunately, it was now also an open sore, and for that there was only one solution.

Igor Karkaroff would have to die – and if it was painful, that would be an unexpected bonus. _Sniveling bloody foreigner._

Nodding absently to himself, Augustus Rookwood slunk back into a darkened alley in Manchester's magical district, and with a soft _pop _began the search for his first target.

_December 1__st__, 1981. Hogwarts School, Scotland_

Dumbledore sighed heavily, absently stroking his beard as he settled into his office. Who would have thought that victory would be as tiring as the fight itself? In addition to bringing his school back into a situation bordering normality, he was actively putting out fires on a dozen different fronts, from the Minister demanding to make young Harry a ward of the state, to the International Confederation of wizards wanting to know why Voldemort's domestic terrorism was so downplayed on the global forum. One battle after another…

Alastor would be round in a moment, before he had to prepare for the beginning of the trials that were sure to turn into a circus. He had not yet had time to even mourn for James and Lily – a tragedy lost in a world of celebration…

Idly picking up a lemon drop, Albus turned as a faint _whoosh_ filled the office, followed by a harsh string of curses as Alastor Moody landed sprawled across the floor.

"Ah Alastor, still getting used to the leg, I see?" Dumbledore enquired with a soft laugh, eager to shake the gloomy thoughts from his mind.

"Aye you would laugh, you miserable devil," the grizzled auror scowled. "It took them long enough to separate me from the original, don't intend to let them take the replacement either."

Dumbledore chuckled, though ceased when he recognized the dour expression radiating through his always solemn friend. "What is the news Alastor?"

"Odd…very odd. Caught the Lestranges today, all three of them. Weren't quick enough though – the Longbottoms spent the better part of an hour under the Cruciatus, and the little tyke didn't fare too well either. He'll recover though – but that'll be two more aurors I've lost to the scum." Ignoring the grief stricken look that seized Dumbledore, he continued. "Up to me, we'd hold them under the bloody thing for a month and then send them to be kissed…" Albus wasn't inclined to disagree.

"Anything else, then…" he continued, hoping that there may still be some news that would convey that the war in fact, had been won.

"Aye yes, very odd, very odd. We found Igor this morning…his head anyway. No idea what came of the body – something nasty if my say counts. Rookies think it was a power struggle, but it smells like thestral shit to me – bastard was wily but a coward at heart – he wouldn't have fought against the likes of Malfoy or Lestrange."

Albus nodded, knowing that arguing with his old friend would accomplish nothing once the man's mind was set. "Thank you Alastor, keep your…eye," another scowl, "open to whatever is to come, but I do hope this leads nowhere – how nice it shall be when my greatest anxiety is the Quidditch final."

With a nod, Moody stood up and vanished through the fireplace. Reaching for a second drop, Albus stood up, and with a sad smile to Fawkes left his chambers to do his part to bringing closure to this tragic time.

_Mid-April, 1982. Surrey, England_

'_Privet Drive. Right bloody place then.' _Augustus Rookwood marched through the clearly muggle neighborhood, stopping briefly to sneer at the sign at the entrance of the lane. Really, regardless of who he was, the fact that a wizard had been sent to live with such filth – mere _muggles – _was galling. Is this how the wizarding world treated their so-called savior, by sticking him with animals, a stranger to his own world? Disgusting.

On a bright note, this would be the last day the Potter would be forced to cohabitate with such vermin. For months now, Augustus had studied everything remotely related to the prophecy or that Potter brat, and was no closer to discovering the hidden enigma inside that shiny ball.

What he had discovered though, through liberal use of confundment and coercion charms, was Harry Potter's current address.

After another private rant (as well as heavy indulging of both Cruciatus and Vodka) at the fact that Dumbledore was secretly raising Potter to be, for all intents and purposes a muggle-born, he began to formulate another plan, one that would one way or another end this hopeless chase he was currently partaking in. The prophecy was a like locked door, and some evil bastard from above was dangling the key just out of reach. _Asshole._

Arriving at Potter's door, Augustus took a deep breath. He had dealt with muggles before – both in his official and…less official capacities. There was nothing these muggles could do that he couldn't repay one thousand fold. It was important to remember that, as he could not use magic – Dumbledore was bound to have alarms in place that would detect any magical use – and Cruciatus had a rather unfortunate stigma that led to a fast response time from the authorities. '_Later. For now, get the boy. The Muggles will get their due.'_

Knocking sharply, he was soon face to face with a great jowled face attached to an equally unpleasant body. '_Proof that Muggles aren't too many steps away from pigs_,' he ranted privately. Publicly, he attempted a thin smile, and said in a tone far too formal to be polite, "I am here for the boy – Potter."

The change was instantaneous, immediately the fat one's face turned a deep puce. "Now see here," the brute roared. "I don't know what you've heard, but we're raising the boy just as we've been told to. Never mind his lay about parents getting themselves killed. So if you're from some nanny government group you can shove whatever complaint you've heard up your –" The fat man was stopped suddenly when his face intercepted a rapidly moving fist.

"Mr. Dursley." Augustus growled dangerously, "I am not from any muggle government of yours." The face turned from puce to green, and Augustus took no small amount of joy as the look of fear replaced the heretofore unchallenged outrage. "I am here for Potter, the son of a wizard and witch whose boots filth like you are not worthy of licking. Bring me the boy now, Mr. Dursley, or you'll find my next response less than pleasant."

Dursley straightened, torn between issuing a retort, defecating on the spot, or running to obey the order. Survival instinct won out, and he disappeared, coming back with a speed shocking for one of his stature holding an infant boy far out in front of him.

"Here he is, good as new. I suppose your Dumblyfellow has decided he belongs with you fre… with your kind." As Augustus took the child, Dursley's arrogance seemed to return, as if the boy's presence gave him a newfound invulnerability.

"And see here now, we did our part, but don't you come back to us when you change your minds. He's not wanted here." Any further rant was cut off by the pop of apparition, leaving Vernon with the rather irrational fear that despite everything that had just played out, his greatest worry was that someone may have seen the stranger simply _disappear. _

_'Wizarding savior my bollocks'. _For all his well thought out stratagems, it had not thus far occurred to Augustus that he might be forced to actually care for the child. Killing them, he could do – not his favorite sport but if it needed to be done, so be it. But this…no, he would not clean the rotten child's backside – he really would need to buy a house elf, insignificant shits they may be, but they could be useful. _ 'Fuck, they'd probably be grateful for the chance to wipe the little savior's bum.'_ Shuddering at the thought, he moved on to the task at hand.

It was time to complete the final and most dangerous phase of this lengthy endeavor. The wizarding world was quieting down, the trials of those death eaters captured were coming to an end – the sheep eager and willing to put the whole miserable episode behind them. The Lestranges, Dolohov, and quite surprisingly Sirius Black were now rotting in Azkaban. All was returning to normal.

The window of opportunity however, was narrow. Whatever he decided to do, he needed to be ready to execute within days – it was impossible to believe that Harry's disappearance would not soon be noticed by Dumbledore. A day, a week even, might be acceptable for a child to stay indoors – but anything longer would simply draw suspicions, something he could not afford.

Indulging in a generous swig of Fire Whiskey, Augustus set to work on fixing the boy up for tonight's occasion. Repulsed by the soiled diaper, he nonetheless managed a sneer at the filthy muggle contraption. Disgusting things, muggles, traipsing about in their own feces when even a near squib would be able to simply _Evanesco _the lot quick as you please.

Augustus continued to work, throughout his muttered diatribe, casting numerous detection spells. "Idiot" he chuckled, "Puts the boy with muggles, and only uses a ministry approved trace." Gracing the thought of Dumbledore with another sneer, he quickly dampened the trace, taking care not to remove it completely, lest something... unfortunate happen. There was a good chance that Dumbledore had keyed it to alert him upon its removal and the last thing Augustus needed was to trip any alarms at this critical juncture. Whatever he may say in private, he held a deep respect for the man's magical abilities, and it would not do to underestimate such a powerful opponent.

Quickly, he began to place a number of charms on the boy, a sleeping spell designed for infants, as well as a weak notice-me-not and just a touch of glamour. It had been one of his more brilliant ideas to make the Department of Ministries defenses warded towards large bursts of magic. Any outside intruder would undoubtedly charm himself to the gills – only to be immediately caught in an unending maze of useless corridors. Subtlety, he mused, was something lost on so many these days.

Taking Potter rigidly in his arms, he squashed the growing annoyance as the child let out a high pitched squeal, before sticking a handful of Rookwood's robes in his mouth. '_Indulge the boy…you can kill him after he gets you the prophecy.' _

Decision duly noted, a mild silencing spell was added to those currently charmed on the boy, and the two left the small flat they currently shared, taking a short walk to Bristol Temple Meads. Finding a private corner in the station took time, but it all but guaranteed that even if a ministry official was currently tracking apparitions in the area, it would be impossible to gain any useful information. In a moment, the pair were in an alley in London, across from a rather plain telephone box.

The box, that fucking red box that looked so inconspicuously _muggle. _How pathetic, that wizards should be force to hide in a cramped little box simply to visit their place of government. Ignoring the rage threatening to reach boiling point inside him, he stalked inside, earning him a silent cry from the baby who he was now holding with a furious grip.

Taking in the wounded face, he again resisted the urge to strangle the brat, settling for knocking the bloody telephone off with a satisfying _thwack._

Entering his six digit identification number, Augustus was spared the humiliation of speaking to the mechanical voice, his position allowing him access into the ministry without the necessary interrogation and (another barely repressed bout of violence) the _wand exchange. _Muggleborns naturally thought this was a fantastic idea, _reasons of security,_ they argued. _While we're at it, let's castrate every wizard from four to forty._

Without delay, he moved to the internal floo, before removing a small silver dagger from the inner sleeve of his cloak. Without a sound, he punctured his finger, smearing a thin band of red across the brat's forehead. As Augustus himself was keyed into the wards protecting the Department, the voluntary blood letting would give the child temporary access as a visitor. Naturally, there were other methods, but Augustus had no desire to spend hours traipsing through the maze of bureaucracy that would inevitably follow if proper procedure was not obeyed.

Beyond that, nothing was required – Augustus knew to the minute where his subordinates were supposed to be, and making sure his orders were followed was a primary reason he had made it to the top of the department.

A rare smile ghosted across his face – the Dark Lord, powerful bastard that he was, had never truly appreciated the beauty of simplicity. At one time, perhaps he had, but as his power went unchallenged, far too often he relied on the glory evoked from revealing his superiority – the brutish attacks on his opposition, or an over elegant plan that was always one step away from ass over teakettle. And the arrogance, those fucking Cruciatus tantrums…_By Merlin's Balls, the next person to so much as aim a stinging hex at me won't be found for weeks._

Here they were, the thousands of glittering orbs, all holding a secret that only those whose fate they determined could touch. Tricky things, prophecies – very little was truly known about them, something that had infuriated Rookwood when he had been aiding Voldemort. It was generally agreed upon that once a prophecy comes into play, the future no longer holds infinite possibilities, but that there is no definitive way for a prophecy to unravel. Tricky bastards.

He stopped, looking down at the brat who had somehow managed to fall asleep. Rationally, he knew this was an infant, and one under a light sleeping charm, true, but the absurdity of sleeping peacefully while illegally being in the center of the Ministry caused a hacking chuckle to escape Augustus' lips. '_Boy's got balls.'_

"Wake up Potter," Augustus hissed, jolting the child in his arms. Achieving nothing more than adding a new stain of spittle to his robes, he shook the boy roughly, and once again was grateful for the silencing charm that prevented the shriek from piercing his ears. Children – enough to drive anyone to dark magic!

"Wake up child…lots of shiny toys. Play with that one." The sensation of talking to Potter in this environment was doing wonders for his own feelings of embarrassment and humiliation. "Little brat, take the bloody thing."

Mercifully, Harry seemed to take the order to heart, grabbing the tiny orb and clutching it to his mouth, '_little shit better not eat the bloody thing after all this,' _and after a moment's hesitation, suddenly hurled the orb straight down, the soft tinkle as it shattered causing Rookwood to hold his breath in tense anticipation. No one came, and his attention was soon drawn entirely to the ghostly figure that rose from the remnants of the mess at his feet.

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..._

Augustus stared at the infant, his eyes calculating with a newfound sense of purpose. Harry for his part, simply seemed immensely pleased with the noise he had created, ignoring the earth shattering revelation in favor of a silent hiccup and a fidget.

_'Fuck me with a Formosan Fireball, but the little shit did it.' _Any stray thought still bent on strangling the boy disappeared in an instant, as the enormity of the situation bore down on him. Here in his hands, unknown to the world, was Harry Potter, who the Dark Lord had unwittingly claimed as his equal. Whatever power he held would be a puzzle that would make his years as an unspeakable pale in comparison. And Dumbledore…

Dumbledore! He could Kedavra the bastard on the spot if he had half a chance. That bastard intended to raise the boy as a muggle-born, ignorant of his own world and his own inevitable importance to it. Typical of the muggle loving twit– send a child who's been up to his gills in muggle culture back into the fore of a torn wizarding culture. Circumstances would all but guarantee that no pureblood could challenge the boy, and Dumbledore would, in one fell swoop, have destroyed the sad remnants of the true magical heritage of Britain. This could not come to pass, it could not!

Magical Britain was torn, she lay wounded, searching for one to help her once again stand proudly as a beacon of power for magical brethren worldwide. He had seen how quickly weakened societies could change – he'd been responsible for several of them after all – and Dumbledore's vision could become reality. Dammit, but he had not lost his own wife, any chance of an heir of his own, only to deem his cause unworthy!

Harry though, yes he could raise the boy right – far better than any muggle ever could. He would learn the customs and history, take pride in a culture that had built great temples and mapped the night skies when muggles were content to dwell like animals. He would reunite the old pureblood families, torn apart by civil war, and bring about an era of prosperity and national pride unseen for a century.

His private rant was brought to an end as a soft squeal erupted from the wriggling mass in his arms. Silencing charm was wearing off then – time to go. Apparation out was possible – the one way network was designed to monitor those that came in, but allow ministry personnel to evacuate quickly if necessary.

Quickly taking out his wand, Augustus summoned the remnants of the prophecy, shoving the broken pieces into his robes. As an afterthought, he took off one of Harry's shoes, and with a silent casting, transfigured it into a replica of the prophecy, placing it neatly in line with the others on the shelf. It wouldn't hold up to any level of testing, but as only two people in the world could touch it, one of whom was dead and the other was in his possession…

One final step, full of irony and derring-do, would solidify his position as Harry's guardian, leaving the old bastard as impotent as Rabastan. How fortunate, that treason and pride make such lovely bedfellows. Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of humor.

A haggard looking man knocked on a faded door, his face set in a grim scowl that did nothing to hide how old and tired he truly looked. Impatiently he waited, growling when the door finally inched open. "Augustus you old bastard, it's me. Why you have insisted I come out to this…place…of yours is beyond me" he snapped, eager to return to more pressing matters back at the ministry.

"I assure you Barty, you'll appreciate the discretion being taken here. I'd be well within my rights to go public with what's been discovered. Consider it a favor to an old friend."

Bartemius Crouch nodded curtly, stepping inside and cringing at the interior. The Rookwoods were old money, but Tiberius Rookwood had been rather good at getting involved in wild engagements and rather bad at gambling. The result was a fortune lost, and only now was the family beginning to regain its old status in society. He understood Augustus' ambition, he had been a captain when Rookwood first joined the auror corps, and now they were both Heads of their departments, though of course Augustus' true position was held in secret. Nonetheless, the man could try to take more effort with…appearances, even if he could not afford the luxury of say, the Crouch family estate.

"What's the matter then, old friend. Another piece of scum?" Crouch asked, the edge of his previous statements absent.

"Right as always, though this one is a tad bit more sensitive. He's bound and ready in the back room, brought him here personally, caught on that he was going after Potter himself!"

Leading his colleague into the adjoining room, Bartemius' face took on a look of righteous indignation. "No…there…there's been a mistake! It simply can't be!"

The bound form of Baretmius Crouch Jr. started back hatefully. Ready to jump in to attack his former fellow Death Eater, Barty the younger, '_bless the simple sod,' _lashed out with a mad fury, "The Dark Lord shall return! You father, will be the first to taste his vengeance!"

"I'm sorry Barty, but it seems he was intent on murdering the young Harry Potter."

This was in the most technical sense true, and though the younger Crouch had no knowledge of how to go about such a thing, the intent would show up if he was examined with truth serums.

"I have naturally removed Mr. Potter from his former place of residence – _Muggles, _old friend – did you know? I would like to place Potter under my personal protection – I'm sure you can see the importance of such actions."

Bartemius Senior showed no signs of giving his opinion one way or another, frozen in horror at the angry mass of his bound son. Blinking stupidly, he turned towards Augustus.

"Yes…yes I think all these matters would be best taken care of privately – we have a society to restore after all, no need to reopen old wounds. I'll speak to the minister, make it official – can't have our young savior out in danger, and no one better than you, is there Augustus…yes, very well."

Augustus nodded, as if resigned at the prospect of raising a child, but doing his duty as the most capable candidate. "If you'd be so good to allow me to offer my thoughts, I think discretion in all ways is best. Let the public know of course that Mr. Potter is in the most protective of environments, but really – no need to bring up the attack, nor _who _exactly is raising the boy – it'll be common knowledge soon enough, but it wouldn't do for a young child to be accosted by the media so early, give him a few years."

Again, Bartemius nodded, still truly unaware of the gravity of the situation. "Yes, yes I suppose you have a good point – discretion is of the utmost importance. About the attacker…you'll be busy with the boy; perhaps I should take care of that other detail?"

Augustus stifled a snort – really, manipulating pride was one of his greatest talents. "Of course, after all – the old ways exist for a reason." A third time he received an empty nod.

"Very well, if that's all for today then, I'll leave you and your soon-to-be son alone for the evening. I'll just take that – _thing _– off your carpet and be on my way. Good night, Augustus."

Ten minutes later, Augustus stared down at the makeshift crib he had transfigured earlier. With the first true smile since Voldemort's downfall, he looked down on his giggling prodigy and with a voice full of pride whispered to his son. "First lesson Harry, keep things simple – the devil's in the details."


	2. Chapter 1

…_and as most of our readers will be aware, tomorrow is young Mr. Potter's birthday. As he reaches that magic mark of eleven years of age, we here at the Daily Prophet wish Harry a very happy birthday, and best of luck as he begins his first of many happy years at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_

Harry scowled at the article, shoving the paper away even as his image waved back with a cheeky smile, the minister occasionally ruffling his hair. With a final glare, Harry returned to his breakfast, hoping the rest of the day would be comparably better than this morning was shaping up. He was not opposed to his publicity – in fact, he rather enjoyed attending ministry functions with his father, looking to all the world like the favorite darling. No, what angered him was the way they went about publicizing him. Father had explained it a dozen times – they'd pass some law that did nothing but pander to the muggle lovers, and then put his name in the paper to keep the public busy fawning over him and ignoring the destruction of their society.

Still, it _was_ his birthday tomorrow – and Father had arranged a day out to Diagon Alley to finally, _finally_ pick up his wand. Really, didn't adults know that having to wait for such a treat was worse than being locked in a room with a Horntail? Or a mudblood.

"Bellatrix!" Harry yelled, filling the small parlor with noise. Moments later, an elf appeared – its posture a perfect portrait of submission.

"Yes young master?" the elf squeaked, eager to fulfill whatever whim Harry may have.

"Has father returned home? He said he might not return till late this morning." The elf squealed in response, "Master Rookwood says to Trix that he will not be home before tea, and that Master Harry is to remember his Latin and French lessons, Trix is to make sure teacher is let inside." Harry rolled his eyes, it was _years_ ago that he had left his tutor out for an hour in the English cold, and even then it was just _once. _Father had made sure that would never happen again though…

"I'll remember, but I have an hour. My broom, Bellatrix."

With a final curtsy, Bellatrix disappeared, and Harry ate the remains of his breakfast, eager to go outside whilst he still had the opportunity.

Grabbing his broom from the threshold, Harry raced outside, enjoying the slight breeze that gave a just a hint of a chill to the summer air. For as long as Harry could remember, he and Father had lived out here in the moors, a vast area around the house unplottable to anyone not keyed into wards. It was in every sense ideal – Father could work from anywhere, wizarding transport being superior to those awful muggle contraptions – and they could enjoy privacy and freedom to do as they chose, just as Father said it should be.

Laughing, Harry mounted his broom, a gift from the Holyhead Harpies sponsors, and took off into the morning sky. Taking advantage of his father's absence, Harry continued upwards in a lazy corkscrew, before leveling off and taking a moment to appreciate the magnificent height of his vantage point. Perhaps this was how a dragon feels? Pretending to be the beast in question, Harry let out a roar, a whooping laugh as he suddenly dived downwards, his voice lost in the wind that rushed past his ears. With a final shriek, he pulled upward, before flying at random, a set of dizzying circles and figure eights. True, the safety charms made an actual crash impossible, but the joy and exhilaration was not dulled in the slightest. Father didn't like flying, said it was _a highly impractical way to get from A to B _– but Harry wasn't sure a finer feeling existed.

All good things come to an end, and Harry was soon forced to wander back inside, not daring to be late for his lessons. After that escapade, Father had told his tutors point blank that they could discipline him as they liked, and Harry had no intention of wallowing through pages of Neptune or Cicero on his birthday, thank you very much.

Alas, as he approached the manor, he caught a glimpse of his tutor entering the front door. Hopefully she was simply early. "_Bonjour_, _Madame Lescher, J'espère que vous n'avez pas attendu trop longtemps_?"

Madame Lescher frowned stonily at the boy, but here eyes betrayed her jest. Even so, Harry suppressed the urge to gulp – recalling his first misadventure when the formidable matron had taught him proper pureblood etiquette no so long ago. "_Chaque seconde que vous me faites patienter en est une de trop. Commençons donc."_

And so it went on, an hour and a half of forced French as he struggled to remember tenses English was sensible enough to ignore, Madame Lescher scolding everything from accent to word choice, most of which she attributed to his "Englishness", with occasional references to innate stupidity and determined obtuseness for good measure. Mercifully, he was allowed to speak his native tongue when studying Latin, which in Harry's opinion, was a very minuscule consolation.

"_Au revoir, Madame," _Harry responded as his tutor disapparated at the border of inner wards. Heaving a sigh of relief, Harry returned inside, eager to see his father, perhaps even have a conversation in a _civilized _language...

As expected, father was in the living room, resting from what must have been an undoubtedly busy night at the ministry.

"Morning father." Harry greeted with the aristocratic aloofness that was second nature to any pureblood child worth his magic. Then his expression changed, a grin stretching across his face as he rushed the older man and fell onto the sofa next to him.

"Morning Harry, busy day? Easier than mine I imagine." Augustus responded with a gruff and weary chuckle, though indulging his son's obvious excitement despite his own fatigue.

Harry mock scowled. "I don't mind French.. not much anyway. But dad, _Latin._ There's a reason no one speaks it if you ask me."

Augustus sneered, reciting his role in the oft played argument. "If you want to quit, go right ahead. Though don't come crying to me when you haven't got a clue on magical theory, and the other students confuse you for a muggle whose somehow managed to stumble into the classroom."

Harry's previous expression turned serious. "Did you see the paper this morning? They were praising Dumbledore, more muggleborns in next year's class than ever before – and then they threw my name out there. Honestly father, people very well might associate me with _them."_

Augustus avoided an outright scowl, the years of freedom from Voldemort's hissyfits mellowing his more reckless outbursts – at least when in the proximity of his son. "Course they won't – people may be sheep, but they aren't completely blind. You are a _Potter, _and you are a _Rookwood._ and you know your family history, inside and out. When most of the common throng were struggling to put food on the family table, your ancestors had been fine tuning the most subtle of magics for generations. Don't you forget it.

Harry nodded, the anger in the room dissipating, and Augustus stood up, stretching his arms and with a yawn finishing. "Finish whatever assignments you've been given – don't want those hanging over your head, and I've not raised you to procrastinate." With as close to a smile as he ever came, he added, "after all, we've got a full day of doing nothing important tomorrow."

Harry scoffed. "To you maybe, but I'm getting my wand! My _wand_!"

Torn between happiness and irritation at his son's increasingly foolish antics, Augustus shuffled towards his chambers, eager for a long sleep before the activity tomorrow would inherently bring. "I'll join you for supper Harry, let Bellatrix know I want to be woken – Ministry grub these days..."

He could hardly contain his excitement. He'd been to Diagon Alley dozens of times, and while he and father normally did their shopping in the more peaceful and less…muggle infested magical district in Bradford, London's wizarding center was nothing he hadn't seen before. No, the true magic was just ahead, the battered sign that currently filled Harry's every thought. _Ollivander's – Makers of Fine Wands since 352 B.C._

"Dragon heart probably." Harry pondered aloud happily. "I could be a dragon…or Griffin feather – yours is beech and dragon isn't it father – yes I think mine will be too."

Augustus for his part was expending all energy keeping the pest in place, though found himself swelling with pride– his son, getting his first wand. He had been shattered when Elizabeth had died, with her the loss of a close companionship the two had shared, but just as importantly the death of his own name and future. For ten years now, the fates had brought back a part of what had been taken away, and ever since that first day years ago was he as thankful as at this moment.

That did not mean the lad could simply act like a spoiled muggle. "Slow down boy, you know perfectly well the wand chooses you and not the other way round. The two seconds we will lose by not running like idiots is a small price to pay to maintain our dignity."

Harry did soften his own excitement _slightly, _but took the mild rebuke in stride, lost in a myriad of different wands, wondering which would be his.

Opening the door, Harry jumped, visibly startled when an undoubtedly very old man appeared out of nowhere suddenly inches away from his face. "Ah Mr. Potter, Mr. Rookwood – I thought you'd be around today. Yes, Mr. Rookwood, 11 inches, beech and a heartstring from a rather violent Russian Brownbelly. Firm – good for delicate charms and transfiguration. Not a bad dueling wand either. Sadly, what it has in spade for subtle wandwork, it was hardly one for grand displays, wouldn't you say?"

Augustus nodded, knowing the seriousness with which Ollivander took his knowledge of all things wands.

"But you knew that, obviously. But you Mr. Potter, whatever shall we get for you." A light chuckle. "Of course, we shall do very little – it's whatever wand takes to you isn't it? Come along, we'll find the right one soon enough."

And so it began, a seemingly endless cycle of wand, until the initial joy gave way to exasperation and finally, a terrifying fear that he would have no match, that his accidental magic was perhaps something else…_Harry Potter – the boy who squibbed_?

He looked to his father for reassurance, grateful when he looked completely unconcerned with the entire process. His thoughts were broken by another mumbling from Ollivander. "I wander…yes perhaps we'll give it a try."

He brought an old box out from a nearby drawer, handing it to Harry with a calculating look. "Try it lad, humor an old man." Harry ripped the top off, gripping the wand and immediately his whole arm tingled with a most pleasant warmth, his hand flicking upward as if the motion had been preordained, a white light leaving traces in the air.

"Oh well done!" The increasingly eccentric Ollivander hissed. "Don't know why we didn't try it earlier. Very unusual thing about that wand there Mr. Potter – the phoenix which donated the core of that wand only gave one other, and that wand belonged to You-Know-Who. It's safe to say we can expect great things from you Mr. Potter – after all, You-Know-Who was as great as he was terrible."

With those haunting words, Harry retreated towards the shop exit, hearing a muffled request for the forty galleons for the wand and the curt thanks his father gave to the wand maker. As such, he missed the pensive look that crossed Augustus' face, and as eleven year old boys are prone to do, simply decided to push such ominous thoughts to the back of his mind, and once again lose himself in the excitement of the prize he had just captured.

Wand purchased, the remaining stops were rather anticlimactic – books, potion ingredients, a new wardrobe of robes, all were tasks that needed completion though hardly lent themselves to entertainment, and Harry went through the required motions, smiling politely at those who stopped to wish him a happy birthday, and keeping his expression civil when pointed out by mudbloods to their muggle parents. _It's no wonder we avoid this place. _Still, the novelty of the day still held a great appeal, and at last the duo arrived at Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlor.

"In you go Harry, I'll meet you at the tables. The Nott's should be coming any moment."

"Theo's coming?" Harry clamored excitedly, before remembering his original mission and turning back to the dozens of flavors at ice cream for sale. Choosing quickly, he ran back outside, eager to meet his friend.

"Hey Theo! I've got my wand!" Harry shouted, before pausing abruptly and with an abashed expression, regaining a more formal posture. "Mr. and Mrs. Nott, it's a pleasure to see you once again." Augustus bit back a retort, the boy had managed to correct his manners despite the day's excitement after all. The Nott's nodded, offering Harry a happy day before turning back to their conversation with Augustus.

Formalities completed, Harry once again turned to his friend, full of excitement. "Holly and Phoenix Feather. Honestly, I thought I'd have dragon, but nothing wrong with a Phoenix is there?" Theodore was more often than not a quiet boy, and even now merely responded with a shrug. Harry, used to such treatment, merely rolled his eyes. "S'alright for you, had a wand for two months now…"

The two fell into comfortable silence, concentrating on the ice cream. Finally, roused from his silence, Theodore asked, "Your dad taught you any spells?"

Harry huffed, "Says he will, now that I've got my wand. You know what he's like, _"Focusing your magic through a foreign wand stunts a wizard's full magical growth_" Harry mimicked sarcastically. "Course, I've got a good jump on magical theory but", Harry lowered his voice into a hushed whisper, "would be nice wouldn't it, to be able to put the muggle lovers in their place from day one."

Theodore nodded, "Father's taught me a wicked stinging hex, says when it works properly you can hardly sit for _hours. _We'll have to trade notes once school starts."

The two continued in a similar vein for the next hour, discussing everything from the wild adventures they were bound to have to all sorts of nasty jinxes they could come up with to play on their unsuspecting peers. Just as Harry was concocting a rather outrageous scheme that included a dragon, a vampire, and a banshee, the adults bumped into the conversation, effectively ending the daring proposals. Good byes were exchanged, and Harry and Augustus returned home, newly acquired possessions in tow.

In an instant, the revelry shifted into a much more serious mood. "Harry, go to the living room, I'll be there in a minute." Harry paused, wondering if to ask what the sharp request was about. Deciding against it, Harry scurried out, apprehensive with a just a twinge of nervous excitement.

Augustus entered a minute later, sitting across from Harry and looking the boy straight in the eye. "First lad, did you tell your friend about your wands connection to the Dark Lord." Harry's eyes widened a mixture of shock and a smattering of righteous indignation. "Of course not! I know when matters are best kept tucked away – I like Theo but I'm not a bloody Hufflepuff!" Augustus nodded solemnly, relieved and pleased – he had certainly not raised a fool. However… "I'm not so foolish to ask. Don't think I did not catch your comments towards the muggles."

Harry scowled, looking downwards. "I'm not sure I know what you are referring to, father," Harry responded with the formality reserved for such uneasy situations. "You can't worm your way out of this boy. I'll assume you were caught in the excitement of the day, but you know what is at stake here. You know the trickery and counter trickery that went on at the ministry in the attempts to have you removed from my care. You are aware of the accusations. Do not disappoint me by giving Dumbledore an excuse to further his agenda at yours and my expense."

Harry looked down, clearly embarrassed. Then, begrudgingly, he nodded. "I shan't do anything that would bring dishonor to our name. I won't run my mouth or attack the muggles if they leave me alone." He paused, waiting for his father's nod, however short. "_But_ I won't go around simpering about just how _wonderful _everything is, and can't the muggles come round for tea during the holidays."

Augustus nodded. "See to it that you keep yourself clear of trouble, and whatever else you choose to do with your time is your own privilege. I expect nothing but the best from one of your breeding and upbringing."

Harry nodded, relieved that the more sober turn of events was at an end.

Augustus too, seemed to believe that it was time break the somber mood. "Now then, it's been a busy day. I'll go get Bellatrix to prepare tea. Why don't you go out and have a fly?"

Harry leaped up, surprised yet clearly thrilled. A second later, he jumped out, and with an enormous smile on his face bolted out the door, ready to once again take to the sky. "And afterwards, I look forward to hearing your piano." Harry's muffled "Yes sir" came to him, eliciting a small smile from Augustus. It didn't do, after all, to spoil the child. And with a full year at Hogwarts, under the supervision of a man who frowned upon signs of pureblood superiority, it was inevitable that Harry's lessons would slip. Best to do as much as possible before then.

Augustus lay back, allowing himself a moment of relaxation. He had raised the boy well, all things considered. He had a good friend in the Nott boy, and got on well enough with the other ministry brats. He was strong, handsome enough for a lad his age, and was proud of who he was and where he came from. Everything would be fine.

* * *

"Hello to all. As we prepare for this coming year, no doubt you are all aware of the fact that Mr. Harry Potter will be joining us at Hogwarts…"

Snape hissed, interrupting the headmaster with a sullen glare. "I'm sure we're all aware headmaster – it's gotten to the point I can't enjoy my morning toast without the little brat grinning at me from the headlines."

"Severus, is that really necessary," Minerva responded with a tight lipped frown. "I'll admit it can at times be a bit much but it's hardly the boy's fault."

Dumbledore let out a chuckle, light enough to be taken innocently, but there was nonetheless a patronizing tone, as if he were a father laughing at the antics of his children. It was an effective way to end an argument between his more temperamental Heads of House.

"I am not so much concerned about young Harry's fame – though it is certainly not what I would have wanted for the boy – but how he will interact with his soon to be peers, given his association with Augustus Rookwood."

Another disgruntled grumbling from Snape. "If I have looked once, I've looked a thousand times. Nothing in my experience under the Dark Lord's services so much as hint as Rookwood's involvement."

Albus Dumbledore sighed, face laced with the accustomed weariness that had never disappeared since he had lost his link to Harry, ten years ago. "Severus, I am well aware of his…acclaimed innocence. However, you know as well as I that Voldemort must have had a mole in the Unspeakables, and Rookwood at the very best was a staunch advocate for pureblood superiority, even if only when in the company of his most trusted confidantes. I daresay we can expect prejudices – even if cleverly hidden – to be rife within Mr. Potter's head. And if his chosen company is any sign, then there are more than a few just as innocent Death Eaters in Harry's immediate circle."

"What can we do Albus, Filius and Pomona cannot be told about the more…sensitive inquiries you have made towards Harry's upbringing. So on a practical matter, what can we _do_, whilst Mr. Potter is in our care, to undo the years of damage that may be inflicted upon the poor boy."

"The _poor _boy, Minerva. You must be going soft in the head – he's the little cherub of our entire world. There is nothing the boy will need, headmaster, than discipline and humility knocked into his inflated head."

"And I'm sure that within the potions dungeons, Harry will be treated just as any other student," Dumbledore interrupted in a placating but firm tone. "I merely wanted to ask the two of you to keep a close eye on the lad – perhaps make an effort to see that, at least within your respective classes, he interacts with the muggle-borns. As you say Severus, as well known as he is in a small circle, it cannot hurt for the boy to broaden his horizons."

Snape did not look the least bit pleased, though contented himself to respond with a curt nod. McGonagall, tight lipped as always, allowed a thin smile to cross her face. "I have yet high hopes for the boy, that he may show the qualities endowed in his true parents."

Ignoring the murderous look that crossed Severus' face at the oblique reference to James, Dumbledore cleared his throat, suddenly tired of the increasing tension. "I'll allow the two of you to take your leave – no doubt you find yourselves as busy as I am – just another month until these empty halls are filled with the cacophony of children."

As the two professors took their leave, Albus Dumbledore looked sadly towards Fawkes, who sat peacefully on his perch. "Old friend, it is times like this that I wonder who truly emerged the victor of the last war." Fawkes let out a soft trill, soothing the aged headmaster ever so slightly. "There is only so much one man can do, but I fear that even so I did less than I ought."

On that less than comforting note, Albus Dumbledore reached into one of a myriad of pockets that dotted his robes, pulling out a grubby package. Unwrapping it, he pulled out a small stone, unremarkable except for its luster, a brilliant blood red hue that seemed to reflect a crimson light across the room.

For months, Dumbledore had fought an internal battle, the thought of protecting the stone within his school, dropping oblique hints to Harry along the way – just enough to tempt the boy into discovering what was being hidden. A sort of irresistible mystery that might force the boy to seek the headmaster's assistance. Strange things were happening abroad – it would be comforting to know just where young Mr. Potter stood.

As time ran out, not four weeks from today Mr. Potter would enter Hogwarts, rational logic overpowered any idealistic hope. Harry Potter was simply too much of an enigma – it would do no good to tempt him with such an valuable prize.

Taking a deep breath, Dumbledore closed his eyes, and then with renewed determination, stuck the tip of his wand into a groove that ran along the top of the stone, and whispered, "_Vitexire."_ In an orange flash and a faint crackle, the stone seemed to implode, cracks spreading through its interior before it crumbled into a fine dust.

In one fell swoop, Albus Dumbledore had destroyed the greatest achievement ever recorded in this history of Alchemy. Still, Nicholas and his wife had enough elixir to get their affairs in order, and really – what was death but the next great adventure?


End file.
